Murder at the Escala
by leroiestmort
Summary: "Oh, we ran into Mr. Grey on the plane. We only discovered the murder when we arrived." Or Mr. John Marple and Ms. Hermione Poirot investigate the assassination of Jack Hyde


**Murder at the Escala**

Before the driver sauntered over, looking grim-faced and a little wary, young Mr. Grey had been remarkably obstinate about driving them to the hotel in his town car. Now he looked much less certain of the offer. His scowl, which had been fleeting before they landed, was etched firmly onto his brow and he kept directing it to his silent smartphone, as though the attempt could stir the device to life. No wonder Marple set aside his knitting needles and spoke up.

"Something seems to be troubling you, Mr. Grey. Perhaps we could catch a taxi, let you attend to—"

Grey huffed out a breath. "It can wait." He continued to stare at the phone, oblivious to their discomfort.

"You're too kind," Marple said. "Yes, I suppose business waits for no man these days. And, indeed, nowhere is that truer than in America. You had begun to tell us what you do on the flight, but I'm afraid I'm still not quite sure I understand." Thin lips pulled into a smile. "You mentioned you have recently acquired a publishing house?"

"I have." There was no pride in Grey's answer.

"And are you not concerned—well, in England, we hear such rumors about the print industry..." He could have asked if publishing and rare earths mining had much in common, but Marple had always been too mild mannered for vulgar inquiries. He left those to his companion, who sat primly on the leather backseat, lurching this way and that as the limousine careered through the dearth of nighttime traffic. In an hour or so, the streets would be clogged and the city would look much different.

Grey scoffed. "It's all a matter of packaging. People don't know what they want."

His phone rang, interrupting what could well have become a tirade against hapless consumers. The call only deepened his frown lines. "When?" he barked. "Damn it, Sawyer! Why didn't you call? Do I have to do everything myself? Goddamn it. Are they there yet?" His nostrils flared. "No... No shit it leaked! What did you expect? I'll be there in-" Grey glanced at his wristwatch: a Rolex with a gaudy gold bracelet. "—five minutes." He hung up without another word to his caller.

"Bad news?" Poirot had kept her peace until now, but patience was in short supply after a five hour flight in the company of a glowering entrepreneur.

"Unfortunately. Look, Taylor will take you on to the hotel after he drops me off." Grey lowered the partition with the press of a button and communicated this instruction to the driver, adding "step on it," as if the urgency of the moment wasn't thoroughly felt in his tone of voice.

Grey's five minute estimate proved generous. Poirot counted a two and a half minute advance on the clock for the time it took them to reach a tall eyesore of a building in the heart of the city. She knew it was their destination when she spotted a gaggle of reporters camped outside the glass-walled entrance. A few police cars scattered here and there suggested some nefarious event had called the media to action.

"Look at them," Grey muttered, "like rabid dogs fighting for scraps." He pitched his voice a little higher to address their driver: "Take us through to the basement."

Apparently confronting the rabid dogs was not to be entertained.

Marple pushed back his horn-rimmed glasses. "Oh dear... I suppose it would look suspicious if they see a limousine park out front, wouldn't it?"

"I'm not acquainted with American reporters," said Poirot as she arranged her knitted scarf against the lapels of her suit jacket, "but I expect they behave much as their European counterparts."

The limousine slid to a stop and Grey pushed open his door with a resolute shove, too impatient to let the driver do his job. Taylor only managed to take the door for Mr. Marple and Poirot. "We have other cars," he offered. "I could drive you in the—"

But Grey wouldn't have it. "I need you _here_, Taylor." He seemed to remember himself then and stopped, halfway to the clearly-marked elevators. "Would you mind waiting?" he asked Marple and Poirot. "We'll be rid of the vermin outside quickly enough, but there's something I have to deal with first. Shouldn't take long."

"Not at all," Marple answered, the picture of munificence. "If it's not too forward of me," he added as he tottered away from the car on Poirot's arm, his knitting dangling from a shoulder bag, "may I ask what seems to be the trouble? At my age, a warning would not go amiss if we're too meet those charming One Directions boys..."

"Nothing so glamorous." Grey slid a keycard into the designated slot and jammed the button for the topmost floor once, then again when the LED failed to light up fast enough. He added almost absently, "Seems there was a murder in the building..."

"Oh!" Marple's fingers gave a little flex against Poirot's arm. "How awful!"

Poirot echoed the sentiment: "_Quel horreur_..."

Grey's restless heel-tapping notwithstanding, they rode to the penthouse in near-religious silence, half thrumming with anticipation.

Chrome-and-steel doors parted to reveal a lavish foyer. Were it not for the red footprints on the marble tile, it would have ranked as one of the nicest places Poirot had visited in the country so far. The scenery suffered even more as they took stock of a human-shaped lump lying perfectly still under a blanket in what could only be the living room doorway. A gun in a sealed bag, a roll of duct tape and several zip ties were also strewn sloppily across the floor.

"Mr. Grey—" Two men and one woman were warily standing watch over the body. The one who spoke looked chagrined and hesitant. Poirot wondered if he was Sawyer, Grey's most recent punching bag. She didn't get the chance to divine an answer as shrill cry of "Christian!" echoed from the living room and an emaciated brunette all but flung herself into Grey's arms.

"Ma'am!" Two patrol officers followed in her wake. Neither of them tried very hard to pry her away. That task fell to Grey, who didn't seem remotely satisfied with the reception and shook her off with broad palms gripping her narrow waist.

"You're back," the girl babbled, "oh, I'm so glad you're back. When did you fly—" Her brows furrowed. "When _did_ you fly out?"

Grey stepped out of her reach. "Not now, Anastasia. We'll talk later. Sawyer, show me the body." The legitimate warnings of the uniformed officers fell on deaf ears as Grey ventured to examine the corpse. He pried the blanket off the man's head with neither pity nor dread. If anything, he seemed disappointed with what he found.

The girl was left standing in the foyer, looking oddly forlorn. Poirot held out a hand. "Bonjour, Madame. My name is Hermione-" soft _o_, silent _e_, the way only francophones pronounced it, "-Poirot. This is my partner, John Marple..."

"Oh. Hello." The girl – Anastasia – seemed baffled by their presence, but she tried to catch herself. "Are you, um, friends of Christian's?"

"Acquaintances," Marple said.

"There was a small mix-up with Mr. Grey's ticket at JFK and we were glad to help. Mr. Grey was kind enough to offer us a ride to the hotel in compensation." Poirot's rouged lips pursed a little. "Regrettably, our timing appears to be less than propitious... I'm so sorry for your loss."

Anastasia swallowed hard. "Oh no. I—it's not really a loss. He wasn't a very nice man." She took a hitching breath and both hands flew to cover her mouth, as if in doing so she might be able to swallow a sob. Poirot laid a hand on her elbow.

The girl was doubtlessly in shock.

"You called the cops," Christian interjected from where he was crouching at the corpse's side. Poirot saw his hand slip into his suit jacket, perhaps to reach for a handkerchief. "And you called them _before_ you called me."

Anastasia's vicious headshake sent strands of hair tumbling across her narrow shoulders. "No, no. Oh, no, Christian, that's not what happened. I _tried_ your number first. Ask Sawyer, he can tell you." Sawyer – and Poirot felt vindicated to note that she had been correct in her estimation – mustered a confirming little nod. "You were probably on the plane," Anastasia added, blowing a stray curl from her face.

Grey's flinty gaze narrowed. He turned to the officers rather than respond to Anastasia's contention. "My wife has nothing to say. You'll have to wait until we have a lawyer present."

Bewilderment flashed on wary faces. The stouter of the two officers tried to interject: "Sir, a man is dead..."

"A man _who broke into my house_," Grey shot back. "A man with a history of harassment against my wife _and_ me, who would have killed my wife if he wasn't stopped." He drew himself to full height and Poirot had to recognize that he cut an impressive sight in his navy suit and silver tie, his voice steady with conviction as he added, "Whatever happened here tonight, I'm sure it was self-defense."

"Sure," said the officer, "but you weren't here tonight, were you?"

This wasn't one of Grey's boardrooms and his discomfort showed. "No," he admitted. "I don't see what that has to do with—"

The officer was quick to explain: "We have to take the testimony of the people who were. That means your house staff, your security personnel... and, yes, even your wife. If you interfere with police procedure, this could all get a lot more complicated than it needs to be. No one's accusing Mrs. Grey of any crime, sir." Not yet, anyway. The threat was explicit; Grey backed off with a scowl.

His staff was considerably easier to move from the foyer and his accidental guests only too gladly took to the offered seating in the living room. Marple praised the color scheme, but Poirot struggled to see that there was much of a one. Whoever had decorated Grey's penthouse must have taken the surname for inspiration and little else besides.

Mrs. Jones, a pale, fair-haired woman whose hands were only trembling a little, offered to bring them tea and disappeared with Grey's driver in tow into the kitchen. Were it not open-plan, the two might have had a moment of privacy.

Poirot averted her gaze out of politeness, only to discover that Marple was already busying himself with the knitting.

"Is now really the best time?" she wondered aloud, reclining on the white leather sofa.

Marple smiled absently. "I missed a stitch in the car. If I don't unravel it now, I'm sure to forget all about it and your scarf will be ruined." He looked up, caught the eye of the imperious bodyguard standing watch beside them: "Do you knit, Mr. Sawyer?"

The man's brows perked up. "I—no. No, I don't. My mother did."

"It's very relaxing. Does wonders for my arthritis, if you can believe it." Marple held out the ball of red yarn he was currently working. "Would you mind?" Sawyer could certainly try to stand there with yarn in hand and his shoulders stiff with tension, but it was better if he sat down. All it took was a little prompting. "Such an awful thing – isn't it – when a woman isn't safe in her own home. I suppose it was lucky indeed that Mr. Grey takes such precautions."

"There have been threats," said Sawyer as he glanced warily to his fellow watchdogs. One was slightly younger and thinner in the shoulders. The other reminded Poirot of her younger sister, who had only recently returned from a tour in Mali.

"Against Mr. Grey?"

"Him and his wife," Sawyer answered on a hefty exhale.

"Rivalries," Poirot suggested.

"Envy?" Marple ventured. "It is a cardinal sin..."

"Ex-girlfriends," muttered the female bodyguard. Her arms folded defiantly as she became the focus of their stares. "I used to work for the NSA. I've met foreign dictators who were less likely to get shot at. Don't look at me like that, Ryan. You know it's true."

Ryan ducked his head. "At least he doesn't have you making shifty drops. I swear sometimes it's like he thinks we're in a spy movie or something..."

"And all that shit about not calling the police? What was that about?"

"Prescott." Grey had doffed his suit jacket. Without it, he looked more like the young man he was: stiff-shouldered and surly, standing in the doorway like there wasn't a dead body slumped at his feet. "A word."

"Oh, I do hope she's not in any trouble," Marple murmured, watching them disappear behind closed doors much as the officers and Grey's wife had done.

Sawyer shook his fair head. "She'll be lucky if she gets any work in this country again. Guess the same goes for me, too..."

"I'm sure that's not true. Can't be; Mr. Grey seems like such a reasonable young man. Don't you think, Poirot?"

Despite the hour, Poirot found her interest peaking. "That _was_ my impression of him at the gate." It had been a close call: news that he would be flying economy had set him off like a firecracker.

Mrs. Jones returned with their tea in a smart ceramic pot. "What else can I get you? We have lemon cakes..."

"Nothing at all," Poirot said. "Please, do sit. You look very shaken, Madame. Were you present when that man broke in?" Mrs. Jones nodded. "What a harrowing experience! Even if this _has_ happened before—"

"No one's ever been _killed_ before." Mrs. Jones drew a hitching breath, held it, then exhaled long and hard in an obvious attempt to get herself under control. She sat down demurely, ankles crossed and her hands folded neatly in her palm. All the same, Poirot watched her gaze drift occasionally to Taylor and intimated that the pair would have sat a little closer together were it not for the company.

She sipped her tea. Mrs. Jones had brewed it wonderfully: it wasn't too bitter or too bland and it certainly didn't bear sweetening.

"Forgive a nosy question, but did you yourself witness the shooting?" Poirot asked. Mrs. Jones nodded. "_Mon Dieu_. And Madame Grey, as well?"

This time, when Mrs. Jones glanced up, it was to seek Sawyer's brooding gaze. Some unspoken communication passed between them before she answered: "Mrs. Grey had only arrived moments earlier, I believe. I heard the elevator and went to see if she needed anything before she retired. That's when I saw Jack Hyde pushing the doors open with both hands. He must have taken the stairs. I heard a gunshot and ran. I didn't see him fall, but I did see the blood. There was so much of it..." She caught herself. "I didn't see Mrs. Grey until afterwards. She must have hid in the study."

"That's the door perpendicular to the elevator, yes?" Poirot asked over the rim of her cup.

"Yes. Mr. Grey works there most evenings, but we thought he was in New York, so I hadn't switched on the lights or tidied it up... Hyde wouldn't have seen Mrs. Grey in shadows, I imagine." Mrs. Jones shook her head. "Thank God for that."

"Indeed and thank heavens she had a weapon on hand," added Poirot, "in a house full of armed security people."

Eventually, the policemen finished taking Anastasia's statement and returned her to the living room. Next in line was Sawyer. Grey wanted to send Prescott home on account of her being summarily fired, but the officers were adamant that they needed to take everyone's statement _before_ anyone could happen.

More police arrived on the scene, much to Grey's chagrin, and CSI cordoned off the foyer, making it all but impossible to leave anyway.

Poirot slid her smartphone to Marple. "I emailed the hotel so they would know not to expect us for a while. They've confirmed they will put the champagne on fresh ice." On the small, glossy screen, the only link she had been able to find regarding Jack Hyde lay exposed in vivid color. The man pictured looked rather like a pirate.

"What a relief," beamed Marple.

"W-where are you staying?" Anastasia asked, her voice small and exhausted.

"The Edgewater," Marple answered with a warm smile. "I understand the Beatles stayed there, back in the day. We only have a few days in Seattle before we travel north. You see, my dear nephew—Raymond West, he's an author, perhaps you've heard of him? No?—well, he's celebrating fifteen years of marriage. His husband wanted to surprise him by having us over all the way from London." He shot Poirot a fond look. "We decided to make a little vacation of it." And how long have you and Mr. Grey been married, my dear?"

Anastasia scratched a hand through her hair. "A few months."

"Two," corrected Grey as he strolled into the living room. Everyone present seemed to suck in a breath and draw themselves up a little straighter at the sound of his voice—Mrs. Grey included. It was an extraordinary thing to witness.

"Right," said Anastasia. "Two months."

Poirot played at ignoring the tense atmosphere. "_Félicitations_." It could hardly be otherwise; Mrs. Grey seemed very young. The mascara tears had been scrubbed from her cheeks since Grey's arrival, but she still looked profoundly out of her depth. To see her flinch and smile so tepidly, as though she couldn't quite make up her mind which was the appropriate reaction put Poirot in mind of wide-eyed Joan Fontaine in Hitchcock's _Rebecca._ "Don't you worry, Madame. This cannot be shape of things to come."

Her smile broadened only briefly. Grey had sat down beside her, but made no move to touch his wife or otherwise provide her comfort. He left the business of hosting strangers entirely in Mrs. Grey's shaking, inexperienced hands. "You, um, you said you came from London?" she asked, clearly confused.

"Is it the accent?" Poirot wondered.

"And the name," confessed Anastasia. "Are you French?"

"Belgian. Well, Belgian-Congolese..." But that was a far thornier history than pampered, sheltered Mrs. Grey could understand. Poirot changed the subject. "How lucky you were to find yourself in Mr. Grey's study when that awful man broke in, isn't it?"

Grey's brows furrowed instantly. "You were in my study?"

"I-I was looking for something to read," his wife replied. "And when I saw Hyde, I just. I didn't think, Christian, and the gun was right there in the drawer... I just fired and then I hid behind the desk. Sawyer found me—"

"That's enough." Grey seemed quick to anger and quicker to rebuke.

"Surely you're pleased Anastasia can take care of herself?" Poirot queried sharply. "Especially from a man as dangerous as Jack Hyde. I understand he was your former employer," she added, ignoring Grey in favor of his wife. "I confess I Googled you. The internet is indispensable in my line of work."

His lips set into a tight line, Grey tilted up his chin. "And what work is that exactly?"

"I'll be damned!" echoed from the doorway, a voice she recognized instantly. "Is that you, Poirot? I'll be—what the hell are you doing here?"

"Oh, Detective Clark!" Poirot took to her feet. "What a surprise! When did you migrate north?"

"When my wife found a job in Seattle..." Detective Clark had built his career on a solid record and consistent results, but a vague resemblance to Colombo certainly didn't hurt. He pumped her hand warmly. "And Mr. Marple!"

"It's John, please."

"You know each other?" asked Grey, confused.

Clark cleared his throat. "While back, these two consulted on a case that had the SFPD completely stumped. We've kept in touch since... What a goddamned coincidence to find you both here."

It was Marple, not Poirot, who waved that aside. "Oh, we ran into Mr. Grey on the plane. We only discovered the _murder_ when we arrived. It's all been rather exciting."

"Exciting?" Grey murmured just as Clark huffed out a breath.

"Three bullets to the chest," said the Detective, shaking his head. "I understand Mrs. Grey fired the murder weapon—"

"There was no _murder_," Grey protested mulishly. "It was self-defense. A man broke in. The gun my wife fired is mine."

"Right... In that case, can I see the permit?"

Grey swallowed hard. "I don't have one. I-I confiscated the gun from a—former acquaintance." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "In any event—"

"No, no," Clark interjected sharply. "Let me get this straight: your wife shot a man with a gun you say is yours but for which you didn't bother to take out a permit. Okay... was it locked in a safe? Was it unloaded? Did Mrs. Grey aim to kill?" The detective's eyes narrowed. "Or was is all about an affair turning sour?"

"What?" Anastasia croaked, her face draining of color. _Poor girl_, thought Poirot, _so easily swayed_.

Grey leapt to his wife's defense: "You'll cease this line of questioning or you'll—"

"Excuse me?"

As Poirot recalled, Clark had never been a man to take well to threats. He was as incorruptible as he was dogged in his investigations. Grey was better off not finishing that thought. "Detective," Poirot heard Mr. Marple interject, "if I may, I think Mrs. Grey is sincere in her version of events." By virtue of his years and experience – and just a little bit because he spoke a gloriously posh British accent – John had no trouble casting himself as the voice of reason. "She is obviously afraid of Mr. Grey and keen to maintain his good opinion. Indeed, since we arrived, she hasn't looked at him once."

Her sunken cheeks flushing, Anastasia offered a lukewarm show of denial. "That's not true..." Poirot wasn't convinced the girl herself believed it.

"The real question," Marple went on as he set aside his knitting, "is why Mr. Grey's first point of contention when he was told someone had broken into his home – and indeed been assassinated – was that police had been called to the scene. Two witnesses, besides myself and Ms. Poirot, can testify to this." Poirot watched him pluck the glasses from his nose with a weary hand. "You may be right to fear him, my dear. Of course, distance in a marriage is not in itself a crime. It happens to us all sooner or later, as passion dries up and life's little battles begin to leave scars... but two months of marriage is hardly enough time for such deterioration.

"No, the real question is why Mr. Grey was so averse to implicating the police in what appears to be the attempted assassination of his wife... a corollary of which, I suppose, is to ask what he took from the body when we first arrived at the scene."

Grey scoffed. "What are you talking about, old man?"

"If I were to guess," Poirot said, ignoring the outburst. "You either liberated keys, access codes or perhaps a smartphone including instructions. I'm sure a full search of the apartment will turn up an answer. According to your staff, you've had previous break-ins, Mr. Grey, which certainly justifies the increased security. But Poirot wonders that three armed bodyguards were unable to subdue an intruder before he reached your foyer. The elevator activates with a keycard, does it not?"

A vein pulsing in his temple, Grey glared back daggers. "He must have taken the service stairs."

"For which one still needs authorization." Poirot reached for her own smartphone. "'Our clients' privacy and security are very important to us. The Escala counts several access points, each with a separate lock-code changed every twelve hours. Only the Concierge and residents of the Escala are in possession of this six digit code, available to them via text message or email.' That is from the website."

Marple nodded ponderously. "Had there been an APB on Jack Hyde, no doubt he wouldn't have come within ten miles of the Escala, never mind successfully eluded several security cameras to penetrate into the service stairwell in hopes that he could _somehow_ reach your penthouse without being spotted along the way... to say nothing of your rather obvious, fierce-looking bodyguards – all of whom should have stood between him and Mrs. Grey. Several possibilities therefore present themselves: the first is that your staff is incompetent. This is certainly possible, though I find it hard to believe that all three forgot their training. Another possibility is that Jack Hyde is an ingenious criminal mastermind, whose previous experience as chief editor of a modest publishing house – which I believe you now own, Mr. Grey – has prepared him for such a mission impossible."

"The third possibility," Poirot finished, "is that Mr. Grey cultivated Mr. Hyde as something of an all-purpose boogeyman. It wouldn't be hard to do, after one of his ex-girlfriends already terrorized Mrs. Grey. The gun in your desk drawer is hers, I presume?" Grey said nothing. That was an answer in itself. "How poetic... Mr. Grey gave himself the perfect alibi: he was away in New York when the break-in occurred, so Mrs. Grey should have been home alone."

"But." Anastasia's voice cracked. "But Hyde had a gun! And duct tape... He was going to. He meant to hurt me!"

"Did you _see_ Mr. Hyde with gun in hand?" Poirot asked gently. She couldn't help pity Anastasia; she was clearly swimming in far deeper waters than she'd realized when she married a man as rich and dangerous as Grey. "Mrs. Jones mentioned she saw a figure in the doorway, pushing the double doors open with his hands. Hyde could not have had time to retrieve the pistol _and_ fit a silencer before you fired yours. No, Madame, I am afraid that the evidence was planted for you to see."

"Ana—"

Grey's hands reached for his wife's shoulders for the first time since he'd walked out of the elevator, but she brushed off his attempt, staggering drunkenly out of his reach and away from them all. Her stricken gaze flickered from Poirot's to Marple's, to Detective Clark. "He sabotaged Charlie Tango!"

"Pardon?" Had the girl lost her mind?

"Christian's... Christian's helicopter. Hyde sabotaged it." She turned to face her husband. "That's what you said, isn't it? You crash-landed in the woods because someone sabotaged the helicopter! That's what you said!"

"Was the incident reported?" Poirot inquired. It almost made her feel guilty, to be haranguing the young Mrs. Grey with questions when she seemed on the brink of a nervous breakdown, yet at the same time a man was dead in circumstances that the illustrious Christian Grey seemed eager to brush under the carpet with the threat of lawyers. Something about men who thought justice was theirs to abuse because they happened to be wealthy rubbed her the wrong way.

Anastasia's voice had dimmed to a whisper: "No. No, but I saw his face. Hyde's—the security footage..."

"I'm sure Mr. Grey has the Photoshop know-how to manufacture false evidence. I expect the duct tape and zip ties are part of the same narrative, concocted to ensure you believed yourself in mortal peril every second you spent away from your husband. It's quite common fare among a particular type of men, although the vast majority never go quite as far as torching helicopters to impress the sentiment on their significant others. Lack of means, I suppose."

"Bullshit," Grey snarled. "I wasn't here. How could I have planted evidence?"

"Oh, I'm sure you didn't," said Mr. Marple as he rose laboriously from the couch. "But your staff live in fear of you, my dear boy. I'm sure that once they are offered some sort of reduced sentence, perhaps even amnesty, they will find it in themselves to recount other dubious orders, beyond _don't ever call the police_."

Grey wouldn't have it. "This is all conjecture! You don't have any proof."

"They don't, Ana acquiesced, he voice barely higher than a whisper, "but I do. You didn't want to let me go outside tonight. I mean, last night." Tears were streaming down her face and she sniffled before she could continue. "You wanted me to stay in, so Hyde would find me here. Oh, Christian, how could you? You, who know what he almost did to me..."

"It was a test," her husband shot back.

Anastasia blew out a wet, sniveling breath. "What?"

"You're willful, Ana! You behave like the world is at your fingertips, but the world will only hurt you, don't you understand? That's why you need me!" Grey took a step towards her and Anastasia unsurprisingly inched back. "And yes, perhaps I wanted to be sure that there was nothing between you and him—"

An inhuman sound tore from Anastasia's throat, almost as if she'd been punched. "Have you. Have lost your mind?" She glanced over his shoulder at the coterie of people gathered at the far edges of the room. "And you all helped him do this to me?"

The staff said nothing, a Greek chorus gone silent.

"You will find there are always men willing to abuse the affections of gullible young women, Mrs. Grey," said Marple. "The worst ones are those who claim to do it out of love. You are not the first or the last to be seduced by wealth and beauty... Thank you for your hospitality. This really is quite a charming apartment—"

"It's a fucking penthouse!" Grey burst out, his shout echoing off the vacant, white-washed walls.

Poirot arched a brow. "A rose by any other name. Detective, it was a pleasure. We'll see ourselves out." Taxis should be easy to find now that the sun had come up.

In their wake, the soft click of handcuffs could be heard. The rote echo of Miranda rights followed Poirot and Marple out into the foyer, past the white chalk outline of Jack Hyde's lifeless body.

fin


End file.
